Now there are some things in life that a chap should never underestimate. The power of a well-tied knot, the importance of checking one's drag before hooking into something with the pulling power of a small tractor, and, perhaps most importantly of all, the consequences of getting on the wrong side of the Wife.
I have spent many years carefully navigating the latter, largely by keeping my head down, agreeing at appropriate intervals and developing an almost Olympic standard of selective hearing. It's a survival technique that has served me admirably, although I fear our latest visitor to the garage had not been afforded the benefit of such wisdom.
Enter Ratty McRatface.
You see in the eyes of the Wife, he had graduated from being a mildly irritating garage visitor that she spotted a day before 'the incident' to public enemy number one, and there was a price on his head that would have made a Wild West bounty hunter sit up and take notice.
His crime? eating his way through the kids advent calendars.
Not just the odd nibble here and there, mind you. No, this was a calculated, sustained and frankly quite astonishing act of festive larceny despite them being sealed individually.
The kids Advent calendars had disappeared down his greedy little gullet, leaving behind nothing but the cardboard evidence of a crime committed with the efficiency of a professional burglar.
Fifty Lindt chocolates. Gone.
And if that wasn't enough, the enormous Father Christmas, the centrepiece of the entire festive chocolate operation, had also vanished overnight.
This wasn't opportunistic thievery anymore. This was organised crime.
I suspect Ratty had been sitting somewhere in the garage rafters with chocolate smeared around his whiskers, looking like a furry little gangster who'd just pulled off the Hatton Garden job.
One can only imagine the smugness. He'd probably been planning his next raid while the rest of us were contemplating the financial implications of replacing the entire festive chocolate inventory.
The Wife, meanwhile, was not amused.
Indeed, I have seen less determination in a salmon trying to negotiate a weir.
There was only one possible outcome. Justice had to be served (her words not mine), and preferably before the next delivery of Christmas confectionery.
And so the squirrel trap was deployed.
Now, I should point out that I was away enjoying a fishing weekend at the time. A perfectly innocent pursuit, I might add, involving rods, reels, the occasional fish and a welcome absence of domestic politics. I had no idea that events back home were taking a rather darker turn.
The bait of choice was halibut pellets.
One minute he was enjoying what he probably considered a complimentary snack, and the next he had inadvertently booked himself into a rather unfortunate all-inclusive accommodation package.
When I returned from my fishing weekend, the trap had done its work.
There he was.
Ratty McRatface, sulking in his downfall, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the turn of events.
Gone was the swagger of the chocolate bandit. Gone was the confidence of the furry felon who had once terrorised the household's entire festive supply chain. He looked, if I'm honest, like a rat who had suddenly realised that perhaps he should have stuck to acorns like the grey squirrels.
The Wife, however, was in no mood for negotiation.
There would be no festive pardon, no diplomatic immunity, no royal amnesty and certainly no second chance involving a reduced sentence for good behaviour. Her verdict had been delivered, and I was beginning to understand why the rat had been looking quite so miserable. What followed was a rather unfortunate demonstration of the fact that rats, despite their apparent athletic prowess, are not necessarily equipped for every eventuality.
I shall spare you the more graphic details, but suffice to say that his final aquatic adventure was somewhat less successful than a day on the Warwickshire Avon. He had entered the world of halibut pellets with high hopes and departed it without ever quite mastering the breaststroke.
Still, one has to admire the quality of his last supper.
Fifty Lindt chocolates, including two enormous Father Christmas's which by any reasonable measure, that's a pretty respectable final feast. Some people spend their entire lives without experiencing that level of chocolate consumption. At approximately fifteen quid's worth, Ratty's last meal was probably the finest dining experience ever enjoyed by a rat in Warwickshire.
I rather suspect that somewhere in the great woodland beyond, tales will be told of a brave and fearless rodent who stood up to the tyranny of the Advent calendar and paid the ultimate price. His name will be whispered around the communal rubbish pile. Young rats will gather beneath the oak trees to hear how one of their own challenged the might of the domestic chocolate empire.
Ratty McRatface: martyr, outlaw, chocolate connoisseur.
Although, in fairness, probably not the brightest eyes in the sewer.
As for me, I've taken a few lessons from the whole sorry affair. Firstly, never underestimate a rats appetite. Secondly, never leave fifty Lindt chocolates within striking distance of anything with four legs and a taste for luxury (lesson learnt). And thirdly, if the Wife decides that someone has to pay, it's generally best not to be standing anywhere near the scene of the crime.
I've been avoiding getting on the wrong side of her for years, and so far have managed to remain largely unscathed.
Long may that continue.
Because if there's one thing I've learnt from this sorry episode, it's that a rat might get away with stealing Christmas, but a husband should never, ever steal the Wife's last chocolate. And that, blog readers, is a trap from which there really is no escape.
Now there are times when a sensible angler would look at the weather, notice the arrival of the first frost, consider the fact that the river has turned gin clear and decide that perhaps an evening in front of the television might be the better option. Unfortunately, sensible angling decisions have never been particularly high on my list of priorities.
Anyway Mick, enough of the waffle go fishing !!! so yes, with the working day behind me and a cold snap having recently given everything a rather unwelcome nip, I found myself heading down to the syndicate stretch in search of a chub. Now, these fish have a habit of making themselves scarce until the New Year, when they suddenly decide that life is worth living again and put in an appearance. But there was no harm in having a go, was there? After all, a chub is a chub, and you don't catch one by sitting at home discussing the finer points of not catching one.
The plan was simplicity itself. Nothing elaborate, no complicated rigs or enough bait to feed the local population of waterfowl for a fortnight. Just a little cheesy goodness, introduced at the right time, in the hope that one of the resident chub might fancy a change from whatever it is chub eat when they're not being caught. With the river running clear, I fancied my chances would improve considerably as daylight faded. Chub are notoriously opportunistic creatures, and while the colder temperatures might have persuaded a few of the lesser species to close up shop for the evening, I was rather hoping the bigger residents would still be inclined to have a little mooch about.
The first frost had certainly announced itself, although the forecast suggested things would become a little milder next week. Not that I was particularly interested in waiting until then. Chub have never struck me as fish that spend their days consulting weather forecasts before deciding whether to eat. They need to feed, whatever the water temperature (I've caught them down to 2 degrees water temperature), and if a lump of cheesy temptation happens to drift past at the right moment, well, who am I to deny them a culinary treat?
Of course, there's always that little voice in the back of your head when you're fishing a clear river in winter. The one that suggests you've probably arrived at the wrong time, chosen the wrong bait, sat in the wrong swim and generally made a complete dog's dinner of the whole affair. Fortunately, experience has taught me that this voice is usually right, but that doesn't mean I'm obliged to listen to it.
As the light began to disappear, things started to feel a little more promising. This was the time I'd been waiting for, that lovely transition when the river takes on a different character and the fish can hopefully get about their business without having to inspect every suspicious-looking offering that passes beneath their noses. Whether the chub had received the invitation remained to be seen, but the cheesy arrangements were in place and there was little more to do than sit back and let events unfold.
I was also beginning to think about a change of tactics for the coming sessions. Once the bait fish have properly shut up shop, I reckon maggots might be worth an outing. It's something I've been meaning to try for a while, and there's something rather appealing about going back to basics. Of course, I have a habit of announcing grand fishing plans that subsequently disappear into the same mysterious black hole as spare banksticks and the odd packet of hooks. But don't worry, plans are in action.
Anyway the river wasn't going to fish itself, although on some evenings I rather wish it would. The light was going, the temperature was dropping and somewhere beneath that clear winter water a chub might just have been considering a little cheesy supper. Time to get on with it, keep an eye on that rod tip and see whether the syndicate stretch was prepared to give up one of its better residents.
After all, you never know. The New Year might be when the chub usually turn up, but there's no harm in asking the question a little early. And if nothing else, at least I'd had a pleasant evening out, avoided the television and managed to get a bit of cheese involved in proceedings. Not every fishing trip can boast such a sophisticated menu.
Right then an underarm cast, after all that, I'm finally fishing !!
Anyway a bite within 5 minutes that I missed obviously !! once the sun went down, it was very chilly indeed, in-fact went I tried another swim the landing net handle was showing some signs of freezing up. To cut a long story short, I returned to the first swim and a lovely bite a chub was one. A decent scrap as well, ok not huge but a nice fish to have under the stars. That was my lot, 6.00pm I was out of there and mission accomplished, on to the next one. !!!
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